Conan the Buccaneer

Chapter Two: A KNIFE IN THE DARK

Dawn paled the eastern sky. The storm had blown over. Now broken, black clouds scudded across the somber heavens. A few faint stars, lingering in the west, were seen intermittently through the gaps in the clouds and were reflected in the puddles of muddy rainwater in the gutters of Kordava.

Zarono, master of the privateer Petrel and secret agent of the duke of Kordava, strode through the wet streets in a foul mood. His exchange of fisticuffs with the giant Cimmerian buccaneer had not sweetened his temper, to say nothing of his having missed his dinner. The imprecations heaped upon him by his master the duke had further soured his disposition, and to top it all he was bleary-eyed with lack of sleep and ravenously hungry. As he dodged dripping eaves and hiked the edges of his cloak out of muddy puddles, his mouth tasted of smothered anger. He yearned for something helpless on which to vent his wrath. Menkara loped silently at his side.

A scrawny little man, whose bare legs could be seen under the ragged hem of his patched cassock, strove to keep his footing on the greasy cobbles as he scurried through the gusty streets. His sandals slapped against the wet stones. With one hand he gathered a patched shawl about his meager chest; with the other he held aloft a burning link of tarred rope to light his way.

Under his breath, he mumbled the dawn litany to Mitra. To him, this was a mere jumble of meaningless sounds, for his mind was elsewhere. Thus Ninus, a minor priest of the Mitraic temple, hurried through the wet, windy streets to his destiny.

Ninus had risen from his pallet before dawn and, eluding the preceptor, had crept from the precincts of the temple of Mitra into a gloom-drenched alley.

Thence he made his way toward the harbor of Kordava and his meeting with the foreign corsair, Conan the Cimmerian.

The unprepossessing little man had a wobbling paunch and spindly shanks. Watery eyes looked out over a huge nose. He was wrapped in a tattered robe of the Mitraic priesthood … a robe that was none too clean and suspiciously stained with the purple spots of forbidden wine. In his earlier years, before seeing the light of Mitra, Ninus had been one of the ablest jewel thieves of the Hyborian lands; this was how he had become acquainted with Conan. Never much of a temple goer, the burly privateer had also once been a thief himself, and the two were friends of long standing. Although Ninus felt that his call to the priesthood was sincere, he had never succeeded in subduing the fleshly appetites that he had so freely indulged in his former life.

Close to his scrawny bosom, the little priest hugged the document that Conan had promised to buy. The privateer needed treasure, and Ninus required gold … or at least silver.

The chart had long been in Ninus' possession. In his thieving days, the little man had often thought of following its inked path to the fabulous wealth whose hiding place it professed to disclose. But since, in his present holy profession, it seemed unlikely that he would ever hunt treasure again, why not sell the map?

His mind full of rosy visions of sweet wine, hearty roasts, and plump wenches that, he hoped, Conan's money would obtain, Ninus scurried around the corner … and ran full into two men in dark cloaks, who stepped aside to avoid him.

Murmuring an apology, the little priest peered near-sightedly at the gaunt man whose hooded robes had fallen back. Then astonishment shocked him out of his normal prudence.

"Menkara the Setite!" he cried shrilly. "You here? Vile snake-worshiper, how dare you?'' Raising his voice in righteous wrath, Ninus shouted for the watch.

Growling an oath, Zarono seized his companion to hurry him away, but the Stygian tore loose and turned blazing eyes upon him. "The little swine knows me!" he hissed. "Slay him quickly, else we are all undone!"

Zarono hesitated but an instant, then whipped out his dagger and thrust. The life of one miserable priest meant nothing to him; the important thing was not to have to answer the questions of the watch.

The gleam of the steel blade in the waxing light of dawn was quenched in the robes of the Mitraist. Ninus staggered back with a choking cry, gasped, and crumpled up on the cobbles. A drop of blood oozed from his mouth.

The Stygian spat. "So perish all your abominable kind!" he snarled.

Peering nervously about, Zarono hastily wiped his blade clean on the fallen man's cloak. "Let us begone!" he growled.

But the Stygian's eyes had noticed a bulge in Ninus' tunic. He crouched and took a small roll of parchment from the Mitraist's garment. With both hands, he spread the document.

"A chart of some kind," mused the sorcerer. "With study, methinks I could decipher …"

"Later, later!" insisted Zarono. Hasten, ere the watch find us.''

Menkara nodded and secreted the scroll. The two men slunk off through the reddening mists of dawn, leaving Ninus sprawled on the cobbles.

Fed by poor wine, an inconclusive scuffle with the sneering Zarono, and hours of idle waiting, Conan's humor had grown steadily worse. Now, restless as a jungle cat, he prowled the common room of the smoky fa", whose ceiling barely cleared the top of his head. Although the Nine Drawn Swords had earlier been crowded, there were now only a few customers left, such as a trio of drunken seamen sprawled in the corner. Two of these softly sang chanteys off key and out of time, while the third had fallen asleep.

The time candle told Conan that dawn was approaching. Ninus was hours overdue.

Something must have befallen the little priest, who would never be so late when there was money to be had. Speaking Zingaran with a barbarous accent, Conan growled to the stout taverner:

"Sabral! I'm going out for a breath of fresh air. If any ask for me, I shall be back soon."

Outside, the rain had died to mere eves-dripping. The black blanket of cloud had broken up and rolled away. The silver moon again peered forth, to illumine the last of the night; but already she had paled in the growing light of dawn. Wisps of mist arose from the puddles.

With a hearty belch, Conan strode heavily along the wet cobbles, meaning to take a turn around the block in which the Nine Drawn Swords stood. He cursed Ninus under his breath. The holy little tosspot would make him lose the dawn breeze, which would carry the Wastrel out of the harbor of Kordava. Without it, they might have to put the longboat over and warp the ship out by laborious towing.

Then Conan suddenly halted, frozen motionless. Huddled in the rain-streaming gutter, a shapeless clump of soiled garments and sprawled limbs had caught his gaze.

His eyes probed right and left, searching housetops, doorways, and the mouths of alleys for signs of lurking assailants. Gently he brushed aside his heavy black rain cloak and eased the cutlass in his scabbard.

In this quarter of the old city, a corpse was no cause for surprise. The crumbling hovels that lined the crooked alleys harbored thieves, assassins, and other such human scum. But where a victim lies, his assailant sometimes lurks nearby, and Conan had long since learned caution in such matters.

As silently as a prowling leopard, the burly Cimmerian slunk through the shadows to kneel beside the huddled figure. With one careful hand he turned it over on its back. Fresh blood guttered darkly in the reddening light of dawn. The cowl fell back to reveal the face.

''Crom!" growled Conan. For this was the ex-thief and priest, Ninus of Messantia, for whom Conan had waited so long.

With swift hands, the Cimmerian examined the body. The chart, which Ninus had promised to bring to the inn to sell him, was missing.

As Conan squatted back on his haunches, his thoughts raced swiftly behind his grim, impassive features. Who would wish the death of an insignificant little priestling, with no more than a few coppers in his purse? The chart was the only thing of any value that the priest could have carried. Since it was absent, logic asserted that the harmless Ninus must have been knifed so that his assailant could possess himself of the chart.

The upper limb of the rising sun reddened the towers and roof ridges of old Kordava. In its light, Conan's volcanic gaze burst into fierce blue flame.

Clenching his scarred fist, the giant Cimmerian swore that someone should pay for this deed, and in blood.

Gently, the Cimmerian lifted the small body in his powerful arms and strode swiftly back to the Nine Drawn Swords. Pushing into the common room, he barked at the taverner:

"Sabral! A private room and a surgeon, and quickly!"

The taverner knew that, when he used this tone, the Cimmerian brooked no delay.

He hastened to lead Conan with his burden up the rickety stairs to the second floor.

The eyes of the few remaining customers followed the Cimmerian's course with curious stares. They saw a tall man, almost a giant, of enormously powerful build. The dark, scarred face under the battered sailor's hat was clean-shaven, and the heavy, sun-bronzed features were framed by a square-cut mane of coarse black hair. The deep-set eyes under the massive black brows were blue. The buccaneer carried the body in his arms with as little effort as if it had been a small child.

None of Conan's crew was in the tavern. Conan had made sure of this when he had formed his appointment with Ninus, for he did not wish news of the treasure chart to pass current among the crew until he was ready to tell them himself.

Sabral led Conan to the chamber that he reserved for guests of quality. Conan started to lay Ninus on the bed, but he paused as Sabral whisked the bedspread out from under the body.

"No blood on my best spread!" he said.

"Fiends take your spread!" snarled Conan, laying Ninus down. While Sabral folded the spread, Conan examined Ninus. The priest breathed faintly, and his pulse fluttered.

"He lives, at least," growled Conan. "Get you gone, man, and fetch a leech! Do not stand gaping like an idiot!"

The taverner silently vanished. Conan bared Ninus' torso and crudely bound the wound, which still seeped blood.

Sabral entered with a yawning physician in a night robe, with a straggle of gray hairs escaping from under the edges of his nightcap. "The good Doctor Cratos," said the taverner.

The physician undid Conan's bandage, cleansed the wound, and bound it up again with a clean cloth. "Luckily," said he, "the stab seems to have missed the heart and the large blood vessels and to have only scratched the lung. With good care, he should live. Are you paying for him, Captain?"

Conan grunted assent. A few swallows of wine restored Ninus to partial consciousness. In a voice that was little more than a whisper, the priest told his tale:

"I ran into … two men … on the street. One … Menkara, the priest of Set. I cried … cried out. He told … the other … slay me."

"Who was the other?" demanded Conan.

"All wrapped up … wide hat and cloak … but me-thinks … buccaneer Zarono…"

Conan scowled. Zarono! That was the sneering privateer with whom he had quarreled, hours before.

Had Zarono heard of his rendezvous with Ninus and waylaid the priest to rob him of the chart? Everything pointed to a shrewd conspiracy to wrest the secret of the treasure from Conan.

He stood up, his face flushed with anger. "Here!" he rumbled. Digging a fistful of coins from his purse, he slapped them into Cratos' palm. Another handful was pressed upon Sabral.

"See that he has good care and gets well, you two!" said Conan. "We'll settle the exact charges when I return, and woe betide you if you do not your best for him! If he dies, bury him with the full rites of Mitra. Now I'm off."

Like a ghost, he vanished out the door of the chamber, glided down the stair, and plunged out the heavy front door of the Inn of the Nine Drawn Swords. He strode swiftly, with the heavy black cloak flapping about his boot heels.

As the risen sun gilded the masts and yards of the ships, the harbor bustled with activity. Sailors scrambled up and down the rigging, officers bellowed commands through parchment speaking trumpets, and creaking wooden cranes, powered by the muscles of longshoremen straining at winches and capstans, swung bales from pier to deck.

Conan came striding down to the waterfront. In answer to his curt query, the captain of the harbor watch told him that Zarono's Petrel had departed more than an hour previously and had long since vanished behind the hook that formed the eastern horn of the harbor. Conan growled rude thanks, spun on his heel, and went clattering up the gangplank of his own vessel, the carack Wastrel.

"Zeltran!" he bellowed.

"Aye, Captain?" said the mate, who was ordering the placing of provisions in the hold. Zeltran was a short, rotund Zingaran with a long, sweeping black mustache.

Despite his fat, he moved as lightly as a cat.

"Line the rascals up and call roll!" said Conan. "We shove off as soon as we can!"

Presently the entire crew of buccaneers was assembled in the waist. The majority were swarthy Zingarans, with a sprinkling of other nationalities. Three were missing, and the ship's boy was sent scurrying to drag them out of the dives in which they had overslept their liberty. The rest of the crew, lashed on by Conan's voice, speeded up their leisurely loading of the ship.

The missing men at last appeared at a run; the last bale was stowed; the cables were cast off from the quay. Eight sailors strained at the oars of the longboat to tow the Wastrel out to open water. When the first hint of a sea breeze caused the sails to lift and flap, the longboat came alongside and was hauled aboard.

Then, as her sails filled, the Wastrel leaned with the wind; the ripple at her bow grew to a white curl of foam. She rocked gently and rhythmically as she met the swells of the open sea, and the squeal of the circling gulls mingled with the splash of the bow wave, the groan of timbers, the creak of cordage, and the sigh of the wind in the rigging.

Conan stood at the forward end of the quarterdeck, leaning on the rail and peering moodily past the edge of the mainsail at the distant horizon. Having given the course that Conan had commanded and organized the watches, Zeltran bustled up to stand beside the Cimmerian.

"Well, my Captain," quoth he, "and whither away this time?"

"Know you Black Zarono's Petrel?'' said Conan.

"That big tub that put out an hour before you came to the ship? Aye, I know her. They say that Zarono's a skilled seaman but a hard, black-hearted man. He had connections among the lesser nobility; but they kicked him out, 'tis said, because of something he did that even those high-born reprobates wouldn't stand for. That's how he came to be a buccaneer. Be you at odds with Captain Zarono? He's no copemate to take on lightly."

"Keep it to yourself, rattlepate, and I'll tell you." Conan gave Zeltran a brief account of Ninus, the chart, and Zarono. "So," he continued, "if I catch him in open sea, I'll give him a proper taste of steel. If the Petrel is bigger, the Wastrel has finer lines and can beat closer to the wind."

"Oh, aye, we can catch her," said Zeltran, giving his mustache a fierce twirl. "And I've no doubt that I could slay six or seven of Zarono's knaves all by myself. But, Captain, weren't it cleverer to follow him without letting him know, thus letting him lead you to the treasure?"

Conan turned a burning, slit-eyed gaze on the mate. Then he grinned and clapped the smaller man on the back.

"By Crom and Mannanan, little man," he roared, "you've earned your pay!" He glanced up to where a cluster of sailors, standing on the topsail footrope with one arm each about the yard, were awaiting the command to break out the topsail.

"Belay that!" he bellowed. "Back to the deck, you!" He turned to Zeltran. "We won't fly our topsail, because Zarono would see it, and we can sail as fast without ours as he can with his. Who is that man with the eagle sight?"

''The goof Jerida?"

"That's the one. Put him in the top and let us see what he sees."

The young Zingaran sailor was presently standing in the basket-shaped main top, peering toward the southeastern horizon. He called down:

"Carack dead ahead, Captain. I see her topsail, and when a wave lifts her I can glimpse a black hull."

"That's the Petrel," said Conan. "Steady as you go, helmsman." He turned to Zeltran, who stood tugging at his huge mustache. "We'll hold back during the day, and at night draw close enough to glimpse his running light. With luck, he'll not even see us!"

Conan grinned hardily, with a gleam of pleasure in his eyes. He drew a deep breath, and expel ed it in a gust. This was the life: a sound deck under heel, half a hundred hardy rogues at your command, a sea to sail and a foe to fight … and wild, red, roaring adventure in the offing!

With all sails but the telltale topsail spread, the Wastrel foamed southeastward on the track of the Petrel, as the blinding sun soared into the azure heavens and dolphins bounded out of the turquoise swells and back in again.